Dig This Grave
by StarvingTogether
Summary: Mildly non-canon story set in Don't Starve Together, in which Wilson learns to stay alive in a hostile world and meets a mysterious, disembodied voice. Is it friend? Foe? And most importantly... how does it know so much about surviving? See inside for more. (Features the Don't Starve player as a character, kinda.) Rated T for swearing that might happen when you're fleeing monsters.
1. Chapter 1

Oh, God, this is my first story... ever. This is loosely based on my own experience as a newbie playing Don't Starve Together, which means it's non-canon in a few ways:

1) The Player is separate character. Kinda.

2) Like in DST, there's no puzzles, no finding Maxwell on the throne... there's just surviving.

3) But Wilson isn't an accomplished survivor, which he should be by the time DST happens in the canon timeline.

If any of this bothers you, you have been warned! If not, read on and (hopefully) enjoy!

* * *

Wilson P. Higgsbury was _surviving_. And for having little prior experience, he thought he was doing quite well. More specifically right now, he was looking for some small saplings to pull twigs from, as his supply had run low.

"Hey…"

Wilson paused. He could have sworn something—someone—had spoken. But now he heard only silence. He was ready to dismiss the notion, assuming it was simply a result of letting his sanity slip further than he'd previously thought. That was easy enough to do.

"Over here… by the grave…" it whispered.

Nope. He might indeed be insane, but he'd heard it. But glancing over at the grave in question, he found nothing that could explain the voice.

"…Hello?" He felt a little foolish, speaking to no one.

"You should… dig up this grave…" Well, that was an unexpected request—though he didn't know what he'd been expecting instead.

"…I am not quite that gullible." To his credit, Wilson was not entirely stupid and had learned a thing or two about listening to strange voices.

"It would truly benefit you… to dig this one up," it insisted.

"I am not going to desecrate that grave."

"I… am trying… to assist you… sir." The voice seemed agitated, measuring its words, willing him to listen, but Wilson stayed firm.

"If you honestly hold no ill intent, you'll leave me alone." He turned pointedly to leave, deciding he'd already wasted too much time talking to nobody.

"_Ugh! Then hand over the shovel AND I'LL DO IT __**MYSELF**_!"

The voice seemed to rush towards him, increasing in volume until it felt as if it was screaming in his own mind. Head still ringing, Wilson watched his own body be pulled towards that damned burial site despite his wishes. His own hands unwillingly wielded the shovel and unearthed the shallow grave. It was an entirely terrifying experience—which was not uncommon in this world.

The treasure uncovered was a necklace of some sort. Perhaps an amulet. The heavy red gem in the middle sparkled beautifully, despite the dirt. And it radiated power. Wilson turned it over in his hands to examine it more closely, not realizing he was once again controlling his actions.

"See? It'll help you. To stay alive." That damned voice was back, though—thankfully—outside his mind once more. "You should also… pick up this gold lying around, maybe?" And indeed, now that he looked, he saw scattered several nuggets of glittering gold amongst the other tombstones nearby. How odd.

"I… I'll have to come back for it. My pockets are full." Gold would be invaluable, but he was willing to leave it there if it meant a quicker escape from this mysterious entity. Besides, his pockets _were_ full.

"Well, if you were to set something down to make room...?" Wilson wasn't very enthusiastic about leaving anything behind, but he had to admit he felt trapped. If he didn't comply, he would just be _compelled_. And so, after a moment's thought, Wilson determined he was willing to sacrifice his axe to prevent his body from being seized from him again. Besides, it was worn down and might very well break on the next swing. He could make a fresh one later, he told himself, setting it down on the ground.

"I can…" A shadowy hand appeared and swiped over the axe, "hold that for you." And in a blink, both hand and axe had disappeared.

"Hey!" Wilson shouted in surprise, even though he'd just decided he was willing to lose the axe. He hadn't expected it to _vanish_.

"Relax." The hand reappeared for a second, holding the axe. "I'm just carrying it for you." Both disappeared again. "Now, about that gold? You'd better grab it in a hurry and get back to your fire pit before night falls."

_Carrying it…?_ He had several questions about this whole event. Many, even. But it was true that the dim dusk's light would soon be gone. He would mull them over while cooking some carrots. Right now, however, he saw his exit, and he took it.

The trip back to his humble beginnings of a camp was quiet and uninterrupted by disembodied voices, which he was very grateful for. Wilson lit a fire and fed it until he felt sure it would burn comfortably until morning. He speared his carrots and held them over it. Wilson P. Higgsbury was surviving.

A flicker in his peripheral vision caught his eye.

His axe was laying on the ground.

"HEY! You followed me!?"

This time, there was no reply.

* * *

A short intro in which the disembodied player makes a terrible first impression. I promise: Meatier writing, more action, and less dialogue to come! And less ellipses, too, yikes, once the awkwardness of human-? communication wears off.

This was initially inspired by the way you can hold one object in the cursor when all your inventory is already full. The obvious explanation is probably that the survivor is just holding it in their free hand, but interpreting it differently is more fun and gives the player something they can tangibly do besides yelling at Wilson, while still being very limited. Besides, when you're playing alone and your character is examining things and commenting on them... who _are_ they talking to?


	2. Chapter 2

Apologies for the delay! I initially didn't intend to actually write this scene out, but I found myself thinking it was necessary, so I had to backtrack a bit while writing- sorry it's a bit short!

* * *

Wilson took a bite of his carrot and chewed it deliberately, closing his eyes in thought. A large part of him wanted to ignore the strange voice, and was, perhaps, grateful that it had not answered him, because that suggested that it had left him alone. He was perfectly happy being alone. Especially when the alternative was… what? A ghost? A shadow? A very convincing hallucination? Yet, at heart, Wilson P. Higgsbury was a man of science, and when confronted with the unexpected, he could not help but seek an explanation. He swallowed and asked something else:

"You brought my axe back?" Indeed, he had wholly expected to never see it again.

"…Ah, yes—I'm sorry—I did," It sounded apologetic, stumbling over its words. "I thought I told you. I didn't think—I didn't mean to startle you."

Frustrated by not knowing where to look while addressing this… spirit, Wilson settled for staring into the crackling fire. By its very nature, a disembodied voice had nothing in the way of body language, and therefore very little to scrutinize for signs of deceit or trustworthiness. But these circumstances couldn't be helped, and so he could only resolve to tread carefully.

"Quite frankly, I thought you wanted to steal something of mine. If that's not the case…" He paused, eating the rest of his carrot, partly stalling for time and partly feeling very hungry. "What do you want, if not to scare my wits out of me?"

"I want to help you." There it was, stated plainly.

"Hmm. And if I were to say I did not want your help, would you leave me be?" He asked. A flash of memory came to him, an image of—he believed the phrase was— "being possessed," and he fought a shudder. That help, he could do without.

The spirit sighed, and he could only guess that it was mulling over a response, or maybe it had sensed his fear. "Yes, I suppose if you honestly do not want my help, I will go. But please, allow me to make my case first. You haven't been here long, correct? But I have. Therefore, there's many things you don't know about the way this place works. But I do. Trust me, you won't want to learn them the hard way."

He felt apprehensive about conceding anything, but he had to admit that the logic was sound. And perhaps—it was possible—excessive caution could be as detrimental as recklessness. Taking a certain amount of risk was necessary. After all, he had gambled his life on the carrots and berries that grew here not being poisonous, because the alternative was certain starvation. Thus far, he had gambled wisely.

"Alright, that makes sense to me. If you're so eager to help, and so knowledgeable, would you happen to know where some saplings are?" Wilson reached for his axe, bringing it closer to examine the damaged blade. "You see, I need to replace my tools quite often, but I'm running low on twigs." He dwelled for a moment upon the implications. No twigs for a handle, no handle for an axe, no axe to chop trees, no chopped trees for logs, no logs for a fire… he'd be back to lighting torches, except he would still have no twigs for a torch.

"I don't know of any nearby that you haven't already stripped clean, but there's some trees just south of here…" The shadow hand appeared for a moment, pointing the way, "that should supply you well. They're very… twiggy." The voice carried a hopeful tone. Wilson had not seen any trees fitting such a description, but he had also not explored that direction yet. He could only hope this was another good gamble.

"Then I suppose I'll head out at sunrise and see what awaits me." With that, Wilson retreated into his mind, considering the deal he had made. He still knew nothing about the entity that insisted it wanted to help him, and that bothered him immensely. If he asked, maybe it would tell him how that strange hand functioned, and where it went when it withdrew.

* * *

Will there be twiggy trees, or is Wilson being tricked? ...Okay, probably, and probably not. But stay tuned anyway to watch more of our favorite Gentleman Scientist learning to survive in the Constant!


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson had learned quickly that the best way to get this spirit—as he had been thinking of it—to go away was to ask it a question it didn't like. Rather than answer, it would go silent for anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. Sulking, possibly. Chief among those questions were variations of "What are you?"

That aside, it did seem genuinely interested in his own survival. It pointed out things that he had missed, and if he asked it a question on the best way to allocate his resources, it usually had an opinion. It had a lot of opinions, actually. And they were… surprisingly shrewd survival tips, for something that had given no indication it could die.

"Your amulet's looking a little worse for the wear. You should be careful with it."

"Yes, I know, it can help heal grievous injury. Quite remarkable." Wilson deadpanned. He'd learned as much after escaping a nearly disastrous fight against more spiders than he'd prepared for with fewer wounds than he deserved. Somehow, this piece of jewelry had restored him to full health rapidly. How it had the power to do so, he did not understand—but his skin, fully healed, spoke for itself.

"Not just grievous injury, Wilson." Yes, he'd told the spirit his name, though it didn't seem inclined to return the favor. "_Fatal_. It can bring you back from the dead. If you don't break it first."

"I should hope it won't come to that." He didn't enjoy dwelling upon the ever-present threat of dying, instead occupying his mind with schemes to continue _living_. And, as a man of science, he couldn't help but be skeptical of the amulet's ability to revive a corpse. Still, Wilson removed the object from around his neck and stashed it into his backpack, which he then put on. Today's primary objective was to gather as much grass as he could carry. Most days went a little like this, collecting something or other, with the occasional break to try building something new.

"Well... Just keep it on hand." The voice carried a fretful tone, as if it would be wringing its hands if it had two of them. Wilson headed out without responding. He got the feeling he was being followed, anyway.

"How did you even acquire all of your knowledge about…" Wilson started to ask, pausing to cut a tuft of grass. "Staying alive? I don't think you could even build a fire," Another handful of grass. "Not that you seem to need one—so how would you know about," Another. "About the shadow monster attacking at sundown, or life-giving amulets, or gold? Have you learned from… are you watching others out here?" The idea at once both thrilled and disturbed him. Other people? Imagine it! And yet, more people… would be trapped in this hell. "What of that, spirit? Did I get it right? Is that where you go when you tire of me?" Wilson asked, unsure of the answer he hoped for.

No one replied.

"Another tough question, then?" He was somewhat aware that he was now—probably—truly talking to himself. It didn't bother him as much as it used to. There was a whole grassland left to collect.

It could feel rather futile at times, painstakingly gathering supplies only to burn through them—literally, on occasion—far too fast. but Wilson had to remind himself that he'd made considerable progress. He'd managed to replace his Science Machine with a more advanced contraption, and a trio of wooden chests sat near it to store his stuff safely. He had a crock pot, and though he was no chef he no longer had to subsist solely on burnt carrots. He even had a spot in mind for a tent so he could sleep more comfortably. That's why he'd gone hunting spiders, in fact—he needed more silk. He hadn't gotten enough, but he knew he needed to replace the traps that had broken before he went back for more. In truth, Wilson also wanted several spares to take with him before facing those damn spiders again. Thus, he needed a lot of grass.

It had been a good day—his pack was full. An uneventful day—no monsters had surprised him. A quiet day—the spirit never announced its return. That was all true, until the hounds came. Their savage growling seemed to echo unnaturally all around him, as if they were circling just out of sight.

"Did you hear that?" He asked no one in particular, pulling out his spear warily. Wilson had survived hounds before, but they were a dangerous enemy and victory was not guaranteed. Worse, it was decidedly dusk, and it would be night before long. The scientist's mind raced as he scanned the area, trying to spot the dogs with no idea what direction they would be coming from. He was not far from camp. He could run back and start a fire… and yet, dodging a pack of hounds while staying close enough to the safety of the fire's glow seemed difficult, and he imagined their sharp teeth destroying the few structures he had managed to build. No, he would have to face them in the open.

Chancing a moment unarmed, Wilson dropped his spear to hastily tie some grass to a couple of twigs, serving as a very crudely fashioned torch, and stored it in his pocket to be grabbed and lighted at a moment's notice. If night fell upon their battle, he would be forced to swap. Perhaps, he thought with a grimace, he could use it to light the bastards on fire.

From his left, the first hound appeared, charging forward with its mouth agape. Wilson swung his spear at it, determined to stay out of biting range. His caution appeared to be paying off, and he landed a few hits safely, but as the second and then the third arrived, this defensive strategy became harder. The fight was taking too long, as opportunities to attack were rare, and there was little chance of killing them all before nightfall.

Wilson thrust his spear towards the injured hound, sinking it deep. It yelped in pain and went limp, but another one lunged forward, clamping its mouth on the spear's shaft, snapping the weapon in half. _Damn_. He tossed the broken end away, reaching for his torch. It was only two against one now, but the torch simply didn't have the reach of a spear, and Wilson found himself regretting the decisions that had led to this deadly close combat as the sun set. A lucky swing ignited one of the hounds, who ran away in erratic circles as the fire burned it. Feeling emboldened, he turned his attention to the other one, determined to do the same to it. But it was hard to make out the hound's shape in the dim light as he thrashed the torch about, desperately trying to make contact.

He didn't even see the now-extinguished second hound circle back, fury in its eyes. He just felt the shocking pain of teeth sinking into his leg, pulling him down. He hit the ground hard, dropping the torch where it laid smothered, out of reach, useless. One thought came through clearly: There was no winning—no, no surviving this fight. Not anymore. The other hound bit down hard on his right arm, and some small part of Wilson's mind, analytic to the end, vaguely got the impression that they were methodically crippling him so that he could neither defend himself nor flee. Another part wondered which would actually kill him: the hounds or the darkness.

He reached his free hand back into his backpack, digging wildly through the grass. Finding the amulet, he grasped it tightly in his fist as the monsters tore him apart. Wilson felt himself dying, his consciousness faltering. But the amulet he still held felt as if it was draped around his soul instead of its usual place around his neck, anchoring him in some metaphysical way. And then it shattered, and Wilson was aware that he was not dead and in pieces, but alive and whole. The hounds were—were _sleeping?_ Knocked unconscious? It was pitch black, but he quickly found the torch where it had fallen. Acknowledging his second chance, and knowing he was unlikely to get a third, he ran.

The race back to camp felt both instantaneous and gruelingly long, as if time had somehow disentangled itself from reality. He noted that his hands were shaking as he re-lit the firepit, and he stared long out past the edge of the light's reach, but the hounds never came. Gradually, or perhaps it was swiftly—again, Wilson could only measure time now by the erratic beating of his heart—the adrenaline wore off, and a sense of incredible exhaustion overtook him.

* * *

Willow's DST character refresh/animated short and the upcoming content got me excited! Here's chapter 3 to celebrate! For whatever reason, I can't imagine Wilson being very skilled in combat. I don't think he'd be exceptionally bad at it, but I don't think he'd ever be impressive. I think he'd rely on indirect methods to kill dangerous things? IDK why... maybe because I'm bad at fighting in this game, lol. And _technically, _if it's following DST mechanics Wilson would have become a ghost and had to haunt the amulet... but let's say that happened without him realizing. Poor guy can learn about spending time as a ghost later.


End file.
